


An Exercise in Trust

by DarlingRed



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton Joins SHIELD, Deaf Clint Barton, Fractions Hawkeye, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Patient as fuck Phil Coulson, Slow Burn, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-02-16 23:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13064181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingRed/pseuds/DarlingRed
Summary: Clint Barton,aka human disaster, is finally apprehended by SHIELD in their last ditch effort to recruit the archer.Just when Clint thinks he’s ready to quit he meets Phil Coulson.And everything kind of changes after that.





	1. Chapter 1

“Stop running now!” Coulson commanded, the van he called in moments before skidding to a halt behind him, blocking the only other way out of the dark alley way he currently had his suspect cornered. The man was breathing heavily, in his hand a broken bow that had snapped like a twig when he used it to upper cut on the junior agents right before he jumped out of his three story apartment window.

Coulson had his gun trained on the man, finger twitched towards the trigger as the blond haired assassin looked around the dead end alley. 

“End of the line Barton, time to come in,’ He commanded, waving the agents with the two German Shepard’s back. The dogs were straining at the leash, the strong smell that they had been tracking for the past mile had finally come to a very dead end. But the man didn’t turn around, just stood there for the longest time before he dropped the broken bow, looked up,

And jumped. 

He grabbed the fire escape staircase over hang that was definitely out of a normal person’s reach, Coulson gapped for a moment, according to the 6 month intel project there was no sign that this man was enhanced. As soon as his mark swung his feet to catch the top of the ladder, Coulson pulled the trigger. 

The man let out a cry of pain that honestly hurt Coulson to hear, and as he grabbed his injured thigh he lost his grip and fell, somehow managing to fall onto one leg instead of his back or head. 

Agent Phil Coulson holstered his gun and jogged over to the groaning man and pulled his hands behind his back, only feeling a bit guilty as a long moan was ripped through him as the pressure was taken away from the bullet wound. It was not life threatening; Coulson made sure of that. He had worked too long and too hard to apprehend the famed archer to kill him now

“Clinton Francis Barton, you’re currently in the supervision of SHIELD special forces operations, remain calm and you’ll be given medical services.” 

It was then that Agent Coulson noticed something near Barton’s head, small and grey, that must have fallen off of him during the fall. When he reached for it the man beneath him snarled “No! Shit.” And dejectedly let his forward thump against the asphalt as Coulson fingered the object in astonishment. 

A hearing aid.

Quickly, he set it down and snapped his fingers lightly over the one ear. 

No response.

He was deaf. 

While muttering obscenities directed at his intel team, he put the broken piece of medical equipment in his front pocket. It was useless now, but it wasn’t his property. 

“He’s deaf sir?” Came a quiet question as one of the agents held back one of the dogs in case he decided to bolt again. 

Coulson looked up, pulling his hand down his face, “It appears that way agent, that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.’ He stood up, taking out his cell phone, “Load him up and get pressure on that wound so he doesn’t bleed out before we get him to headquarters.”

“I can still hear you assholes,’ came a near muted and slightly garbled voice from the ground. 

Coulson almost smirked, he certainly had spirit. That can be a good thing, or a very bad thing for the man depending on how this whole operation would go. 

“Good to know,’ he turned to the other agent, “Wheels up in 5.”

—————————————————————

The ride was quiet for the most part, particularly due to the fact that his mark was missing one of his hearing aid that he still had tucked away in his pocket, and the other was due to the fact the assassin had technically just been shot, so wasn’t exactly chatty. 

The tourniquet was tight above the wound and the bleeding a slowed. Coulson looked up from his report he was writing when the man looked over at one of the guard dogs who had been eyeing him suspiciously the entire ride. 

Barton pointed to the dog with his cuffed hands, his words were a bit louder than normal as he asked, “What’s his name?”

Coulson knew his facial expression must have been comically as he looked up from the Shield issued tablet to where the prisoner was pointing. 

“Did you just ask me what the dogs name is?” He asked incredulously, just to make sure he heard right.

The man was rather pale (once again, bullet, leg) when he nodded. 

Not to let the man get under his skin he replied, “Susan.” And went back to his paperwork until he heard him scoff at his answer. 

Coulson raised his eyebrow as the dogs handler just had a perturbed look on her face during the exchange that was taken place, “Problem Barton?”

“I mean,’ Clint shrugged, “Just not really a dog name.”

He had an slight southern accent if you listened hard enough.

“I’ll make sure to make note of that in your paperwork,’ Phil muttered, shaking his head in amazement.

It took only a minute for the prisoner to stir again, letting out a soft whistle, taking in his surrounding as he did so. 

“Are we there yet?” The blond asked; if Coulson hadn’t know any better it was if the man was whining. 

“Can I shoot him sir?” Agent Perez asked suddenly from the front seat of the vehicle. 

“Eyes on the road Perez,’ Replied Agent Coulson, “And I think he’s been shot enough for one day.”

Clint coughed slightly, shaking his head before all color leaving his face, “Yea about that,’ he huffed, “Yea I’m going down.”

And with that, Clint Barton slid down the wall, his eyes rolli back as he did so, slumped unceremoniously in the bucket seat, only kept upright by his restraints. 

Phil sighed deeply, he was getting a headache. 

He set down his tablet and reach forward, pressing his fingers to the other man’s pulse point on his neck, satisfied with the steady rhyme he found there. 

“Well at least he’s quiet,’ he exclaimed, sitting back down and grabbing the neglected paperwork; he was normally done by now, “Alert medical when we arrive will you Perez?”

The man in the restraints didn’t stir; Coulson signed off on his report and waited to arrive at base.

________________________________________________________

 

Phil was alerted by medical when his prisoner started to stir. Or he was alerted when the man was found after the wailing of his heart monitors sent the staff scrambling to his room, only to find him half way into the ceiling vent, IV’s yanked out of his arms and bullet wound torn around the stitches. He was told they had to hit him with a low dose tranquilizer to calm him down. The compassion of a cat in a tub was made by one of the doctors.

So here he was, after hours, watching the man start to twitch to life again. They had reattached the various restraints, adding one across the chest to keep him prone. The beeping of the heart monitor sped up just enough for Coulson to know the man was awake.

“Do you want to keep playing possum?” Phil asked, putting down the thick manilla envelope on the bedside table, the scrawled writing at the top named the famed assassin by name, but with everything that has happened in the short amount of time with the mark, it should read pain in the ass. 

Clint Barton opened his eyes slowly and looked around, immediately tugging at the restraints as he realized he was tied down. 

It didn’t take Phil long to see that the man panicking, pulling at the restraints roughly and grunting as his heart rate raised.

Phil stood up quickly, walking slowly towards the bedside with his hands up waiting for the man to look at him as he finally tore his eyes away from his bound arms. His chest was heaving and sweat was pooling around his hair line, the one hearing aid still was nestled in his right ear so he knew he could hear him. 

“I need you to calm down Mr. Barton, breath,” Instructed Phil, letting himself look over the medical file attached at the end of the bed. “I’m not sure how my intel team was this much off the mark on you Mr.Barton, but if you’d allow the doctors to take a look at your ears we can get you some new devices.”

Clint narrowed his eyes immediately, his hands clenching into fists, only contained by the leather restraints. 

“Don’t,’ was all the other man said, his eyes hard and his voice low so he could control the volume even with the one hearing device. 

So Phil raised his hands slowly, with wide open palms to show the man that he had nothing hidden in his loose grip. 

“I don’t feel like it would be appropriate,’ he stated slowly, watching how the assassin was not watching his hands but his lips when he spoke, ‘To speak about your current situation without the use of your hearing devices.’ He paused, watching the man’s eyes flick up to his before he continued, still hard and untrusting, “If you will allow us, we’d like to fix them so we can speak.”

Barton quickly whipped his head to the door of his medical chamber, Phil could only imagine the vibrations of the door closing alerted him to the doctors entrance. 

Dr. Johnson observed the scene with a polite scrutiny, in her hands a small box along with a file of paperwork that Coulson swore was thinner when the man had first arrived. 

“Agent Coulson,’ she acknowledged, walking towards Barton’s bedside slowly, she sets the small box on the bedside table, “I have the paperwork you asked for, and obviously the hearing aids. We believe they will be the right fit for the time being.”

Coulson nodded, taking the folder carefully and flipping it open, all the while very aware of the hard gaze of the master assassin watching his every move. 

Most of the lab work and readings only confirmed what he already knew; he was malnourished, dehydrated, several healed broken bones that showed defensive and offensive fractures. His hearing could not be determined while he was out but they did note significant damage to the ear drums, most likely the result in blunt force trauma to the head. 

He shut the file, mentally remembering where he stopped and adding it to the pile of intel they already had on the man in question; his history and current employment was overwhelming at least and was worth a night or two in the office. 

Dr. Johnson was checking his vitals, and Clint was letting her, albeit cautiously and with an air of annoyance at the whole situation. 

He kept looking over at the box that rest on the table, and Coulson could practically hear the mental battle raging on in the assassin’s head as he weighted the pros and cons of allowing them to help him. To let them talk to him. Phil knew he could hear enough to get their point across, but he needed to know that they weren’t the bad guys. Even if he chose to rot in prison, that would be his choice. 

Judging from what he already knew, Clinton Barton wasn’t used to having people give him a chance or a fair life. 

So he pulled up a chair, allowing it to scrap the tile floor to alert Clint to his movement and proximity. The other man held his breath as the agent stopped right before his bed, taking a seat and leaning forward on to his knees, face to face with the man he had just shot not four hours earlier. 

“I understand your apprehension Mr.Barton,’ Phil reasoned, keeping eye contact and letting himself slow his speech, ‘but we’re the good guys. And we need to talk. How this turns out is up to you at this point.”

Phil gestured for the box of hearing aids on the table, which Dr. Johnson handed over silently, watching the exchange with an air of professionalism; he knew she was their to protect their patient. She worked for SHIELD, but above and foremost she was a doctor. And that’s why he asked for her on this case. 

“These,’ he lifted up the box, making sure the blond knew exactly what they contained, “Are for you. Free and clear. I just need you to trust me. Just this once and we’ll go from there.”

Coulson took to counting in his head as Clint seemed to dart between yes and no several times, his fists opening and closing in his restraints. Phil had no doubt that if he was free he could be up the vents in two seconds flat, bullet wound or not. 

But it took them over a year to find him, and he would damned if he lost him now. When he was so close. 

And Clint nodded. Hard and quick like he was thinking of changing his mind in the very act of agreement. 

Releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, Phil handed over the box to Dr. Johnson who smiled briefly and touched Clint’s shoulder to let him know she was there. 

The blond never took his eyes off Phil as he tilted his head and gave Johnson room to work; Phil didn’t allow himself to break eye contact either. If it was a staring contest the archer wanted, then so be it. Coulson wasn’t someone who would back down from this. Clint was sizing him up and he knew it. 

Clint flinched for the briefest of moments as the device was activated, and didn’t say a word as she removed the older device (which was definitely on its way out, and aged from what Coulson could see) and allowed her to implant it into the other ear canal. 

Sitting back in the uncomfortable hospital chair, Coulson watched and allowed Dr. Johnson to conduct a few small tests, snapping her fingers and asking quiet, short questions to which Barton nodded each time. He looked more at ease, his hands no longer balled up but relaxed at his side. 

Phil felt more at ease, as if watching some of tension melt away from his prisoner, took some of his away as well. 

Before Coulson could get anything out of his mouth, Clint looked up at him and said, “So you’re the prick who shot me.”

Well I’ve been called worse, Coulson thought to himself, thankful that his face didn’t betray his shock at finally hearing his prisoners voices with his full range. 

“That would be me, yes,” Coulson answered, still staring him down. 

Clint narrowed his eyes, seemingly taking him in, “That was a good shot,’ he stated, “Muscle. Minimal bleeding, nothing major taken out.”

“I may not be, The Worlds Greatest Marksmen,’ Coulson replied, pulling out a photocopy of an old circus flyer, holding it out for the man to see, ‘But I still know how to do my job and with that comes with being a pretty good shot.”

The man looked at the poster almost mournfully before steeling his jaw. Coulson has never seen a man who looked so young, look so old. His eyes told more about him then he knew. 

“What do you want from me? Why am I still alive?” Coulson could tell the assassin was choosing his words carefully, weighing his options one question at a time. “We both know you have enough on me to lock me up or pump me full of enough shit to stop my heart. So why am I in a hospital bed with stitches instead of a lightless room chained to floor.”

Phil drew back a bit at the aggressiveness of his words, “Shield doesn’t work like that,’ he stood up, putting the photo copy back in the appropriate folder. “I know you don’t think we’ve noticed, but you’re a lot smarter than you let on. You know this was a recruitment not a kill mission. Or you’d be dead by now.”

“I don’t work for anyone,” Clint countered, fists clenching again. God this kid had some anger issues that needed working out. “And all I’m good at is killing people. You don’t want me.”

Coulson nodded, clearing the small room in a few paces before turning around slightly, hand on the door knob. 

“You know,’ he said thoughtfully, “Everyone on that kill sheet? In that third folder there? They were all wanted for something. Not one person on that hit list was going home to a wife and kids at the end of the day. You were operating in a very slim grey area Barton.”

Coulson opened the door, stepping half way through stopped, “And don’t think I didn’t notice that gun on your hip when you were running,’ The assassin looked shocked at his words, “You were tired of running and wanted to get caught. So before you throw away this chance, I’m going to let you sleep on it. I’ll see you in the morning Hawkeye.”

And he shut the door, leaving a very stunned, very silent Clint Barton behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This in Clint’s POV about Chapter One.
> 
> Chapter Three is in the works! Be prepared for some angsty shit, snarky Clint and character development. 
> 
> Probably some pizza at some point
> 
> Dammit I’m hungry now.
> 
> Anyone leave a comment or two! <3 <3

  
_Ok, this was bad_.

  
He was tied down; that was never a good sign. His body was warm and fuzzy around the edges, a dull pain in his upper thigh reminded caused everything to come rushing back. The agents, the bullet wound, the dog named Susan.

Who names a dog Susan?

Probably that asshole who shot him; guy seemed like a square that would name a dog Susan.

Fuck his leg hurt; it was a clean shot, straight through, past any major arteries which he appreciated for obvious reasons.

Clint didn’t open his eyes yet, he could barely hear anything out of his ear that they had left the other hearing aid in, but enough to hear a soft beep that he unfortunately would know anywhere. He was in a hospital, not just from the heart monitor sound alone, but the smell, the stiff sheets and the annoying needle he felt in the crook of his elbow loading him full of god knows what.

“Do you want to keep playing opossum?” Came a voice next to him, and he nearly jumped. How did he miss that there was a person in the room? Off your game Barton, step it up.

It was then that he decided to fuck the feigning sleep part of his plan and just go straight to panic; which was easy since he was bordering on it for the past 3 minutes.

He began pulling at his restraints, they cut into his wrists and legs, and they had added one across his chest which just about put him over the edge.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t hear-

A quiet flurry of action from the agent made him panic more, despite the way he had his hands up and moved slowly. The agent wasn’t wearing his bullet proof vest anymore and his shirt was partially untucked.

How long had he been out and how long had the man been sitting there?

“I need you to calm down Mr. Barton, breath,” he barely caught what the agent guy, Phil was telling him to do, “I’m not sure how my intel team was this much off the mark on you Mr.Barton, but if you’d allow the doctors to take a look at your ears we can get you some new devices.”

That caused Clint to freeze. They wanted to mess with his aids, they wanted to give him new ones. Which means they wanted something in return, someone for him to kill? Something from him he was sure.

“Don’t,’ he felt his chest vibrate with the gruff intent of his voice, and he hoped it relayed his message enough.

The agent Phil’s eyes narrowed, and he put his hands slowly to his sides, palms out.   
“I don’t feel like it would be appropriate,’ he was speaking slowly, allowing his lips to curve over every word and syllable. Fuck he knew he could read lips. ‘To speak about your current situation without the use of your hearing devices.’

Clint didn’t like that this guy read him so easily, it was disarming and a disadvantage to say the least.

“If you will allow us, we’d like to fix them so we can speak.”

It was at the moment that he felt the vibration of the doors at the end of his bed open, they needed to grease those barring.

The doctor was a short woman with mousy brown hair, she didn’t have any weapons or flanking guards, no medical equipment that looked sharp or deadly, which was a nice turn of events in Clint’s favor.

She was handing over a file to agent and he stopped watching their lips to crane his neck to see its contents.

Barton caught snippets as she kept turning her head, but could see they were obviously talking about him.

Clint didn’t blame them, he was interesting guy. Apparently interesting enough to gain the attention of whatever the hell this organization was.

So far no one had a Russian accent and blessedly no tracksuits so that’s always a plus.

Malnutrition. Dehydration. Bullet wound. No shit, you can thank mr. agent guy over there for that one Clint thought smugly, trying not to wince as the pain meds were leaving his system. It left him more alert and conscious but also brought the pain that had been slowly needling its way back from a nagging pull to a full on throb that was making it hard for him concentrate.

Trying his hardest not to pull away as the doctor came close to his bedside, he allowed her (but what choice did he really have at the moment), to check his vitals and whatever readings were being spit out of the printer next to the bedside table.

Lifting his blankets he tensed immediately but he didn’t allow his eyes to shut as she carefully inspected the wound on his thigh.

He tried his hardest to keep breathing but with the combination of restraints and just the soft touch of the doctors hands was wearing on him.

Barton’s tongue felt heavy and swollen in his mouth and his stomach was empty with hunger. When was the last time he had eaten? God, he had been running so hard from these assholes he had barely had time to scarf down a cheap cheeseburger.

And he was tired; tired of running, tired of the dirty motels, tired of killing.

But what else was an deaf ex-carnie supposed to do.

He kept looking at the small box on the table next him that the doctor had brought in. Clint knew what they contained but at what price? What did they want?

The scrap of metal on tile brought him out of his reverie and he found himself looking into the much softer eyes of the agent guy then had remembered earlier.

“Understand- apprehension,’ he was having trouble concentrating and the doc must have upped his pain killers because everything was fuzzy again. Not as much as before but just enough for his stomach to stop flipping at the throbbing. “We’re-good guys. How this-is on you.”

  
Agent man Phil was holding the black box.

“These are for you-‘ the man was saying, keeping his eyes on him, like he knew Clint was sizing him up. Daring him to look away or let a tell slip that he was lying at all. That this good guy routine was all a farce. “Free and clear.’ Clint resisted the urge to scoff. Nothing was free. “Trust me.”

Something settled in Clint’s stomach like a rock at the word.

Trust wasn’t something he was really...into.

But fuck he was hungry, he was tired, and if they were going to shoot him later he might as well get a good meal in and some nifty new hardware before he kicked the bucket.

It was better than the way he thought he would go; on some cold dark roof top with a bullet through his skull.

So he nodded.

He saw the man’s eyes light up and almost, almost crack a smile as he handed the hearing devices to the doctor who had been watching everything the whole time.

Barton never let his eyes leave the agent’s, even when the doctor touched his ear and he resisted the urge to fight her off, and he let her slip the device carefully in and switch it on.

He had tried not to wince as the room awoke around him, making his already nauseous stomach heave a bit as everything got louder. The doctor, Johnson it read on her name tag, took his old one out of his right ear and looked at it disapprovingly. It was old and desperately needed an upgrade. She switched on the other aid and he was surprised about how crisp everything sounded.

Hell, these were nice.

But instead of dwelling on his new gadgets he turned towards Phil, and now that he could speak at a normal volume with confidence he simply said, “So you’re the prick who shot me.”

The man looked taken aback but at the same time seemed impressed if not a bit annoyed.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“It was a good shot. Clean. Through and through,’ he paused, watching the agent quirk his eyebrow. “Didn’t hit any major arteries.”

“Well,’ the man started, rustling through the mountain of paper work that Barton could only assume was about him, which was more than just a bit disconcerting, and pulled on a leaflet that he knew too well. “I may not be the World’s Greatest Marksman, but I know how to do my job. And being a more than good shot is part of that.”

Maybe it was the morphine talking, or maybe it was the memories of his brother and the shit life that had led him to this moment to cause him to deflate.

He just wanted to sleep.

Maybe a light coma would be nice.

  
“What do you want from me? Why am I still alive?” Clint just wanted the truth. “We both know you have enough on me to lock me up or pump me full of enough shit to stop my heart. So why am I in a hospital bed with stitches instead of a lightless room chained to floor.”

Agent Coulson. That’s what his name said on the visitor’s badge stuck half heartedly on his chest.

Agent Coulson seemed taken aback, his brow furrowed and replied sternly, “Shield doesn’t work like that,’ he stood up, putting the photo copy back in that neat pile of paperwork the guy had been pouring over. “I know you don’t think we’ve noticed, but you’re a lot smarter than you let on. You know this was a recruitment not a kill mission. Or you’d be dead by now.”

Clint drew his hands into fists. Fuck these guys. And fuck this paper pushing asshole who thinks he knows him

“I don’t work for anyone,’ he countered, ‘And all I’m good at is killing people, you don’t want me.”

Agent Coulson looked away and nodded, stood up and tucked in his shirt before putting the chair back in its place.

He had gathered all the paperwork and Clint thought to himself, this is it. Bullet in the brain. At leas the morphine was nice while it lasted and he was warm.

“You know,’ Coulson said, thumbing though his file, “Everyone on that kill sheet? In that third folder there? They were all wanted for something. Not one person on that hit list was going home to a wife and kids at the end of the day. You were operating in a very slim grey area Barton.”

Coulson opened the door that could lead to his freedom, stepped half way through and stopped, “And don’t think I didn’t notice that gun on your hip when you were running,’ The gun. Shit, “You were tired of running and wanted to get caught. So before you throw away this chance, I’m going to let you sleep on it. I’ll see you in the morning Hawkeye.”

Clint Barton, for the first time in pretty much forever, was speechless.

  
_________________________

So he stared at the ceiling for awhile. Maybe an hour or three. It couldn’t really be sure because there wasn’t a clock in his line of sight and the strap around his chest really restricted his movement.

It had to have been a bit because the meds were wearing off and he was having trouble keeping still; his ass was numb was laying down for so long and his leg hurt.

And to make matters worse that stupid agent’s stupid little speech was making consider things. And feel shit he didn’t want to feel.

Barton could make out the comings and goings of a hospital outside the door, could see the occasional outlines of nurses or orderly and the short shifting shadows just to the edge of the door frame confirmed that there were at least two guards stationed outside his door.

Clint looked up to see they had welded the vent shut that was over his bed.

Bastards.

They came in just one second later he would have been gone. Of course, there was a good chance he could have bled out in the dusty vents being as he ripped 3 stitches on the way up there. But either way, it had been semi solid escape plan.

His ass still throbbed where they had stabbed him with a tranquilizer that had hit him like a ton of bricks.

See you in the morning Hawkeye, the agent had said.

So he was coming back.

If he was the good cop, he was pretty sure he was going to see the bad cop eventually.

It seemed ridiculous of them to be wasting meds and a hospital bed on him just to kill him in the morning but he had met some weird, masochistic fucks in his time so nothing really surprised him anymore.

So Clint Barton let himself do something he hadn’t done since he had been in the semi safety of his decrepit apartment in New York, and let himself finally sleep.

  
When he awoke, there were three people in his room. His aids were almost having trouble discerning who was speaking over the other as Doctor Johnson was seemingly arguing with a large man with an eye patch.

So here was the bad cop.

Fuck. Here it comes. Clint was already steeling himself for whatever the man would decide to dish out. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter given his current arrangement.

“He is still healing from his wounds Director!” Her tone was no nonsense, and Dr. Johnson was crossing her arms and not standing down from the much taller man in front of her.

“He’s an international fugitive Dr. and as much as I respect the regards you have to profession, I need to talk to him now before I waste anymore of our resources,” he had countered, his voice booming and with an air of authority that almost made Barton want to cower.

This guy seemed way too far up to be the bad cop.

Director she had called him.

“Good morning Mr. Barton,’ came a voice he knew. Agent Coulson was standing there, almost like he was blocking out the bickering next to him and holding a steaming cup of the most amazing coffee Barton swears he had ever smelled. “We’re hear to talk.”

Clint laid his head back on his pillow hard.

Ok, this was still bad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint makes a decision that will change his life, while Coulson takes on a responsibility that will change his

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been one of the easiest fics to write, I already have the next chapter planned out and should be up soon. Hope everyone had a great holiday and please leave me some comments, I’m all for CC and what you think about my fic. It fuels me

The man tied to the hospital bed looked nervous but also eyeing his coffee cup with more than a passing interest. Fury was still arguing with Dr. Johnson while Phil decided to try to reason with the young archer before Fury got into him.

“Good morning Mr. Barton,’ he said smiling a bit. He noticed how red Barton’s wrists were above and below the restraints; he had been trying to get free again and of course the struggle yesterday must not have helped much either.

He had refused to speak, his jaw set defiantly. This was going to be challenge; he could tell by the hard glint in the archers eye, the kid had seen too much and trusted too little. But of course, in their line of work, that wasn’t exactly something he hadn’t seen before.

Nick and Dr.Johnson still bickered away, so Coulson took the initiative and moved closer to the side of the bed.

“Are you hungry? Have you eaten?” He asked, noticing once again the way the archer was eyeing his styrofoam cup full of dark roast and two sugars.

Clint refused to answer but Phil finally saw a tray of food that had been pushed into the corner, untouched. His brow furrowed in confusion; the man’s hands were tied down, there was no way he had eaten in at least 24 hours.

“Director,’ Coulson interrupted Nick’s tirade causing the man to stare at him in mild annoyance, but to be honest, that was Nick’s normal face at least 80 percent of the time. “If I could take a moment alone with the prisoner and perhaps settle this?”

He caught Dr. Johnson’s eye and nodded towards the tray of abandoned food next to the immobilized man. The doctor looked sheepish and nodded, opened the door and Fury walked through shaking his head. But he trusted Phil.

So Coulson pulled up a chair, knowing full well that the archer was watching him with a cautious eye. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man had already cataloged everything in the room that he could use to not only escape, but probably kill whoever tried to stop him.

How did he know?

Because Phil Coulson would have done the exact same thing if he was (and he had been) in his situation.

So he moved carefully, pulling the tray over the archer’s chest and pushed the small red button on the underside of the bed, pushing the prisoner into a reclining position inside of flat on his back.

“I’m going to untie one hand, do you understand?” He made eye contact with Barton, waiting for him to slowly nod his head as if he didn’t believe what he said. “If you try anything, there are two highly trained SHIELD agents outside, director Fury and a woman who has the authority to shoot you up with enough tranquilizers to knock you out until next Christmas. Of course you’d wake up in a prison cell, drooling into a cup. Am I understood?”  
“Crystal.” So he decided to speak, good to know.

Phil tried to keep as little physical contact as possible, Coulson kept that in the back of his mind, catalogued in his mind under Clint F. Barton as he flinched as if Coulson was going to rip his arm off at the slightest of movements.

Only letting one hand free, he pushed the tray over him, watching the man have a silent war in his head as his stomach rumbled.

“It isn’t poisoned,” Coulson calmly stated, gesturing to the unopened jello to the right of the meatloaf.

Clint narrowed his eyes and glared at him, “And how do I know that?”

Coulson smiled thinly, “Mr. Barton, if we wanted you dead we would have done it already. And there are much efficient ways to kill a person,’ Coulson pointed to the meatloaf, “And besides, its actually quite good, I wouldn’t spoil Mrs.Collin’s cooking with arsenic.”

The hunger obviously won out; it normally did. He watched in near amazement as the man shoveled the food in with one hand, the plastic fork piled with food with no discernment of any kind.

Malnourished. Dehydrated.

Coulson let himself take in the man he had brought in, dark circles under his eyes, his collar bones just a bit too pronounced but nothing a few good meals wouldn’t fix.

They had been chasing the man non stop for well over two months now; was this his doing in part? The man looked like he hadn’t slept in that amount of time.

Clint was hunched as far over the plate as the chest restraint would allow, as if he was protecting it from Coulson, or anyone else who would take it from him So Coulson stepped back a bit, giving him space as he ate.

The man wouldn’t take his eyes off Phil, so he decided he should get down to business. Maybe giving him something to focus on would help the archer’s general anxiety over the situation, given that he believes himself a dead man at any moment.

“Mr. Barton,’ he began, opening one of the files he had yesterday, one that he had poured over into the early morning hours to learn everything he could about the assassin called Hawkeye. “As I am sure you have now been made aware, our attention towards you is not necessarily one of a simple law enforcement venture. If it were, you would be in a holding cell. Or maximum security prison, whichever one our director would see fit of course.”

He saw Clint’s eyes narrow at the mention of Fury; good, he had a healthy respect already. Nick seemed to bring very intense feelings from people he was around. Mostly extreme loathing or extreme respect, there was little grey area.

“I’m not killing for you,’ Clint muttered, pushing around the mash potatoes, “I work alone, I pick my own contracts,’ he paused, his eyes going dark, “Trust me when I say you’re not the first organization that has tried to recruit me.”

Phil flicked his attention to the man’s medical profile; the broken bones highlighted by the technician were only a few months old, lining up on the timeline when they lost him for nearly a month to who Coulson and his team had believed to be a rouge weapons trafficking operation.

Coulson guessed, by the tone in Clint’s voice, that he had turned them down. At a large expense to himself judging from the read out.

“We don’t want you to kill for us Mr.Barton, not for reckless abandon, or money,’ Phil closed the file and leaned forward on his knees as Barton decided to ignore him for enough time to rip open the pudding cup with his one hand and teeth. “Of course you would be plaid for your time here. We want you as a field agent, an asset to Shield. We want you to fight the bad guys,’ he paused, “The bad guys like the arms traffickers that broke one of your legs and took one of yours molars, if I read the x-ray properly.”

Clint chuckled, tongue dragging down the plastic spoon now cleaned of the butterscotch pudding.

“You guys are nothing but thorough Mr.Agent Man,’ Shaking his head, Clint took the empty pudding up, eyed the open trash bin across the room and while looking straight at Coulson, pitched it to his side, the garage landing neatly in the can without any effort on the archers part.

“Why should I help you?”

“I’m glad you asked that,’ Phil took a folded paper clipped pile of paperwork from inside his jacket pocket, moved the tray of food, and set it where Barton could reach it and read. “A place to stay, food, protection. Oh and if you perform admirably and keep up your side of the bargain outlined on that contract, a full pardon on your criminal record. Which is, impressive to say the least.”

“It’s not all bad,’ Mumbled Clint, looking down at the sheet with bored eyes.

“You literally burned down a dog shelter,’ Coulson deadpanned.

“It was a puppy mill, for one,’ Clint exclaimed, holding up a bandaged finger, “And two, I rehomed all the dogs first and place smelled terrible. You should be thanking me.”

Coulson resisted the urge to smirk, instead gesturing at the paper in front of the injured archer.

“Well Clint. It’s your choice.”

Barton scoffed, turning the document over, “Not much of a choice is it? Play hired hand for you guys or prison.”

Shrugging, Coulson pulled a pen out of his pocket, “This time its a chance to start over, and do some good.”  
Clint took the offered pen, fiddling with it enough to give Coulson an eye twitch by the nervous clicking of the pen top over and over.

But the man sighed, signed his name, date of birth and the date.

“A face like mine wouldn’t last long in prison,’ he grumbled, pushing the documents towards Coulson as if they had personally offended him, “And I like your meatloaf.”

Coulson smiled.

  
____________________________  
  
Coulson reattached the restraint on Clint’s arm; much to the archer’s bemoaning but it was the only way to make sure the man didn’t make one last great escape attempt. This was a parole he had told the archer, trying to ignore how guilty he felt as he left him in the room by himself to seek out Nick Fury.

“Coulson, we need him to -“ Fury stopped as Coulson handed over the paperwork signed by Clinton F. Barton, accentuated with a small heart over the I in his name, because of course. “How did you...”

Coulson smiled, “All the paperwork is accounted for, requesting permission to get Agent Barton in the parole training with surveillance of course.”

Fury looked impressed, or as impressed as Nick Fury can visually appear, “Granted, assign him to Agent Evans. Get medical release on board and his quarters assigned, will ya?”

Raising his eyebrows, Coulson asked, “Evans sir? Are you sure he’s the right handler for Barton? He’s a bit of a hot head.”

“Exactly, Barton has some authority issues that need stamped out quick, I don’t have time to babysit your circus performer Cheese.” Nick took the paper work and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his jacket, then pointed at the older agent, “Keep an eye on that kid Coulson, you told me saw something in this guy, while I saw a great opportunity to empty a clip into a very volatile individual.”

Nodding Coulson stood up a bit straighter at his friend and directors speech, “And I stand by what I said. I believe Agent Barton could be a valuable asset to Shield.”

Nick clapped him on the shoulder, “You’ve never been wrong before, but keep an eye on him. I have a feeling he’s going to cause issues, so don’t let me hear about them when they do, understand?”

Coulson smiled, “Of course sir.”

No way this could go wrong at all.

_________________________

Coulson found Clint right where he left him for obvious reasons, prone and staring at the ceiling, his mood seeming to balance between bored and annoyed.

He tried not to get distracted by the blue eyes that followed him as soon as he opened the door.

“Agent Barton,’ he said, lifting the blanket covering the man’s feet to reveal the hospital sock clad right foot, which he quickly attached an ankle monitor underneath the black restraint keeping him tied to the bed. “Welcome to Shield.”

“Did you seriously just put an ankle monitor on me?” Exclaimed Clint, jerking his chest to get a look at the bottom half of himself, “Dude I thought we were cool, I signed your stupid paper.”

Coulson resisted to the urge to roll his eyes, and instead busied himself with taking off the black ties holing the man hostage to the hospital bed. “Like I explained earlier Agent Barton, parole for 6 months. This is part of your agreement and makes sure you hold up your end of the bargain.”

The man was, what only Coulson could call, pouting and quite spectacularly at that.

“I’m going to get you set up in your quarters after you complete your physical. We’ll start primarily training after you have a doctor’s release for your leg, but until then we can start on book work.”

Clint rubbed his raw wrists in something akin to disbelief as the last restraint fell off of his left leg.

“Problem agent?” Coulson inquired as Clint swung his legs over the bed to let his socked feet dangle over the side.

“I get a room?’ He asked, an air of hope and even, if Coulson pushed it, amazement.

Coulson found himself softening his tone at the inquiry, “Of course you do Barton. Part of the agreement, a place to stay.”

Clint seemed to notice a change in the attitude of the room and quickly shrugged, pointing at the device on his ankle, “And how long do your tech nerds get to track me?”

“That’s up to you, we’ll see how you do.”

It was that time that Coulson noticed him picking at the frayed edges of the hospital gown, unsure of what to say next, which he thought was very abnormal for a man of Clint’s wit and obvious need to deflect using humor.

“So,’ Coulson clapped, startling the young man out of his stupor, “Food?”

Clint lit up.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is released from medical and Coulson acts on a hunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys! I wanted to add another chapter before 2018 and I got it in right under the line. I hope you all love where I am going with this. Comments are love! HAPPY NEW YEARS

The mess hall was a buzz with busy agents and parolees making their way through the busy common area; it was a clean, simple cafeteria but with many options and always smelled delicious.

Phil risked a side glance at the junior agent who was taking it all in, he seemed to shy away from the crowds but he was definitely looking at the food. Guy always seemed to be hungry, which in his case, was a good thing.

“Alright Agent, lets get something to eat shall we?” Phil extended his arm out allowing the archer to go first as Phil picked up a gray tray from the rack. Phil tried to ignore the pang in his stomach at seeing the sweats that the hospital provided them with roll up and expose the red ring around his wrist. It was announcement that he did not come willingly and he was anxious on how the other agents would take it.

  
Not for his sake of course, but the archer didn’t seem to be much of a people person as it was.

Of course the crutches made him stand out like a sore thumb.

Clint tentatively picked out a few items from the cafe line up, but he kept looking around, Phil immediately recognized that he was cataloging the exits and from the way he kept sneaking passing glances upwards, the vents and beams above them.

Phil added an order of coffee to their order and went towards an empty booth, not saying anything but the man expertly navigated behind him on the crutches on the smooth tile.

They sat down and Phil deposited the food in front of Clint, who’s dark circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced in the fluorescent overhead lighting of the cafeteria.

Pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans and a biscuit which Clint proceeded to smear an unhealthy amount of butter onto along with some sweet tea that he added another packet of sugar to.

“That’s a very...southern meal choice,’ Agent Coulson observed, pouring a healthy serving of dressing over his Caesar salad. He picked out the tomatoes, because he might eat healthy but he could never stomach those small tomatoes the cooks seemed to be so delighted with sprinkling over every salad in the cafe.

Clint raised his eyebrow, smirking around a larger than recommended slab of beef, “I was born in Iowa, Agent,’ he shrugged, quickly shoveling more food in his mouth as soon as he was able, “But of course, you knew that.”

Phil did know that; he knew that Clint Barton never finished high school, he knew that he had an older brother Barney who is still at large for various thefts. He knew that he had an alcoholic father, and that after a drunken car accident killed the man’s parents, that he and his brother were sent to various foster homes, none of which worked out.

He knew that they ran away to the circus. That he trained with Trick Shot and began the marksman that he is today because of it.

It seems unfair to know so much about someone without their consent; it looks good on paper and reports but to the have the person in question sitting in front of you, shoving food in their face and protecting the grey tray as if anyone could snatch it up at any second, made him lose his appetite.

Coulson stuck to his coffee that meal and left the salad untouched.

__________________________________  
  
“These will be your quarters,’ Phil said, opening the steel door that led into a small, but efficient space that included a small kitchen area and stove. It wasn’t spacious but it served its purpose well, and they had never received any complaints on the dwelling spaces. “As soon as you’re released from medical, and provided you’re no longer a flight risk of course.”

Clint looked around the space in what could only be described as awe. The bare, container style walls seemed to be laced with rubies the way he looked at them.

“So I get to stay here if I play by your rules?”

Coulson nodded slightly, “Not my rules, but Shields.”

Clint shrugged, plopping himself down on the full sized mattress with a huff, running his hands over the grey comforter almost lovingly.

“So I have to go back to medical, huh?” He asked but his tone was already resigned to the answer Coulson was going to respond with.

“You got shot two days ago Barton,” reminded Coulson dryly, pointing to the crutches he had left on the floor.

The archer shrugged nonchalantly, “I’ve had worse, and I don’t like doctors.”

The older man chuckled, “I couldn’t tell by the way you tried to scale through our ventilation system after you were admitted.”

Clint didn’t respond, just continued to look around the sparse room, his fingers fiddling with the hem of the sweats that engulfed him. Coulson let him, trying to not analyze the situation too much and let the man just sit for a moment, that was until his shield issues smart watch alerted him that it was time to return the man to medical.

He tried not be let how exhausted the man looked get to him as they trudged back to medical, where he was hooked up to an IV again.

Coulson grabbed an extra blanket from the linen closet and when he turned around, stopped with his heart in his chest.

Clint Barton, master assassin and world famous marksmen, was holding out his arm near the restraints that still rest on the bed from earlier. His jaw was set, like he was working against every inch of natural instinct on not only allowing them to restrain him, but offering.

Not able to reach the man’s eyes, Coulson reattached the arms loosely, leaving his feet unrestricted and threw the knit blanket over the man as best as he could without getting too close. He saw how the archer was with close physical range, and being his background and occupation, Coulson knew it came with the territory.

He went to leave when he stopped, “Are you supposed to leave your aids in overnight Barton?” He asked inquisitively, noticing the black Shield issued devices still nestled in his ear.

Barton looked at him scathingly, “I think that’s my decision don’t you think?” He spat, clearly Coulson had stepped over the line, “Or am I allowed to do that, sir?” Clint practically growled the last word through clenched teeth, obviously upset at the senior agent.

Coulson would have been angry at venom spewed from the archer, but he realized quickly it had nothing to do with the question but Clint’s way of maintaining some sort of control. Coulson wasn’t about to take that from him.

“Good night Agent,’ Coulson nodded, ducking out of the room as quickly as he could without looking like he was bolting.

Which he definitely wasn’t.

________________________

Two weeks passed quickly, at least for Coulson, Agent Barton seemed to withdraw more and more in medical, but when given something to concentrate on, he seemed happier.

It was the last physical they needed to clear him for light training and since the bullet wound was superficial, and the nanobots from R&D were finally cleared for medical use it was time to get the archer to his normal suite and start his training.

No one was as excited as Clint for obvious reasons.

“Please tell me there’s a place I can get normal clothes after this,’ he said, throwing off his sweat shirt and putting on another one of the exact same color that one of the nurses had left out for him.

Coulson wasn’t staring, only obviously seeing that he had gained some much needed weight on his recovery time here.

Healthy looked good on him.

Coulson startled when he realized the blond was waiting for him to answer, “Um, yes clothing is already at your apartment. There are a few casual items but it mostly items suited for the gym or training.”

Clint nodded, looked down at his hands and looked as if he was about to say something until Dr. Johnson walked into the room, clipboard in hand and looking pretty cheerful to discharge her most problem patient.

“You seem in a good mood today,’ Clint popped up as she entered, causing the woman to nod slightly in his direction.

“As much as I have enjoyed our time together Agent Barton, I’m pleased to say that we’re looking at discharge you today,” she was chipper this morning, Coulson thought trying not to laugh.

“Aw, I wasn’t that bad doc,’ whined Clint, moving towards the edge of the bed, most of the distrust he had for the medical staff was still present, save for Dr. Johnson.

Dr. Johnson smiled and pulled out the blood pressure cuff from the small rolling table that she led behind her, “I’m hanging a plaque on this wall for my most difficult patient.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,’ Clint replied, and Coulson swore he winked at the brunette doctor.

Everything seemed to be going ok until one of the audiologist and optometrist came to check the mans vision and hearing.

Coulson could see the archer winced away from the light being shown in his eyes and he completely clammed up when the audiologist asked for Clint’s aids to test his hearing.

Looking at Coulson nervously, he quickly took the hearing devices out and laid them in the doctors gloved hand, who fiddled with the devices and checked the battery life.

Clint watched him carefully, even as he set them on the bedside table.

The actual test itself was painless and quick; 80% hearing loss in the right ear and 90% in the left but Coulson himself was a bit surprised when Clint looked at the readings nonchalantly.

“I’m deaf, I could’ve saved you the paperwork,’ he grumbled, grabbing his aids and shoving them back in hastily.

Coulson could see the archer retreating into himself again, looking around at the exits again, once again, his nervous tell was picking at his nails or the hem of his clothing.

“Let’s get out of here Agent,’ he said, taking the evaluation from the doctor in his breast pocket, “I have something to show you before I escort you to your quarters.”

Agent Coulson heard Clint hop of the table, nearly skipping out of the room in his attempt to leave the sterile environment and medical equipment.

They walked down the wide grey halls without a word, Coulson watching the new agent out of the corner of his eye as Clint took in everything for the first time; other than his limited field trips to the mess hall, this was the normal hustle and bustle of the noon hour when agents were bustling to finishing reports and heading to training classes.

They took the elevator down, Clint practically vibrating with energy in the small enclosed space. It took everything in Coulson not to grab the archers fiddling hands to still them, but he refrained. Barely.

The 16th floor was quiet at this time of day which is why Coulson brought Clint during this time.

“Agent Coulson,’ greeted Daniel, the administer in charge of the range and responsible for the signing in and out of weapons. “Are you hear for the special request you ordered?”

“Agent Daniels, good afternoon,’ Phil smiled, setting his badge on the counter and signing in on the check in sheet. He always found it humorous that they chained the ball point pen to the table that was used to sign out weapons and military grade guns. “And yes, you’d be correct. Is it finished?”

“Oh yea,’ Daniels excitedly replied, pulling a long rectangle box from underneath the counter, cross referencing the number on Coulson’s badge that matched the tag on the box.   
“Agent Barton, if you’d be so kind,” the older man gestured to the box, moving back for Barton to take his place at the desk.

“Does he have a sign in yet?” Daniels asked, looking at the bandaged and bruised man albeit suspiciously.

“Use my numbers, I’ll send over his official badge information this afternoon. This is just a tour,” he smiled at Daniels who let it slide, though he kept an eye on Clint the entire time.

He couldn’t say he blamed him, with his baggy sweats, still healing bruises around his wrists and the circles under his eyes looked as if he’d been sucker punched the night before. He’d also have to get the man a razor at some point, and his hair sticking out every which way in an almost permanent bed head since he met the assassin.

Clint looked over the box hesitantly as he carefully lifted the edges to open the lid. He didn’t say anything, didn’t blink or so much as move a muscle as he looked at the content of the box.

“Will that be acceptable for your training agent?” Phil finally asked, breaking the silence. He saw the way Clint’s blue eyes, not that he was noticing his eye color, were welling a bit.

“This is mine?” Clint whispered, with gentle fingers he touched the black recurve bow that was nestled carefully in protective black foam, a dozen or so training arrow settled next to it.

Coulson nodded, watching Barton take the bow out of the box and looked it over reverently, running his callused fingers over the matte finish.

“Technically its property of Shield. But, in that same breath, in that case so are you. But its for your use.”

Barton looked up hopeful eyes shining, with more life than Coulson had seen the entire time he’d seen him, the only other comparable moment was when he mentioned food or coffee, “Can I try it out?”

Coulson nodded, cutting off Daniel’s protest with a sharp nod of his head and gestured to the glass door to the right of them, grabbing the gloves and wrist guard from a resigned Agent Daniels.

Clint practically bound through the door and taking the offered finger guards and strapping on the wrist guard and tightening it with his teeth.

Coulson didn’t find that enduring at all.

He tried not to notice how the Clint’s hands were shaking as he strung the first blunt arrow; he looked at Coulson curiously. He knew. He knew this was a show of trust, that he could take that arrow and shoot it through Coulson’s throat before he could shout for Daniels, that he could escape through the ducts that Phil knew he was mapping as they walked into the armory.

But Clint smirked a bit, licking his lips as he stroke the arrow almost lovingly, as he drew back the 250 pound draw without so much of a grunt of strain. A small chuckle escaped his lips, “I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to get my hands on one of these again,” he smiled, a grateful look on his face when he finally brought he gaze away from the stunning word R&D accomplished.

“Your other one was damaged in your apprehension, I figured this would do.”  
Clint shrugged, (almost nonchalantly as he could managed if Coulson hadn’t been there to see him open the package in the first place), and turned with a quick spin of his heel, quickly felling one of the upper left targets before Phil could blink, dead center of the red circle.

Phil saw the man come alive as he fired shot after shot, shoulders and arms defining against each the pull of bow string.

And draw after draw he landed each target, each dead center.

He had never seen the archer so focused without a care in the world as when he was on the range. As soon as he was out of arrows, when he turned to Coulson with his chest heaving and his eyes bright with excitement and life.

Coulson tried not to smile, instead nodded at the targets, “So it’ll do?”

Clint shrugged and beaming as he replied, “Yea boss, it’ll do.”

Reluctantly, Clint returned the bow and retrieved arrows to Agent Daniels and messily scrawled his name on the sign in sheet.

“Ready to get to your quarters Agent?”

Nodding, Clint lead the way to the elevator and as Coulson followed he noticed something that made him realize his assumptions were correct.

Clint hands were still and the signs of agitation were no where to be seen.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the late update! School and such has gotten pretty busy, so not as much time to write. But I hope you all enjoy and I’ll have the next chapter up as soon as possible!!
> 
> Comments and kudos are gold! <3

It was two weeks into Barton’s training when Coulson was in the mess hall, grabbing a sorely needed coffee (Two sugars, no cream), when Agent Evan’s appeared beside him with his own tray of food in his hands.

“Afternoon Evans,’ Coulson greeted politely, trying hard to not let the nagging headache get the best of him that Monday. “How are the new recruits doing?”

Evan’s grunted in return, seemingly gulping the black coffee he had poured in his cup moments before and put it on his tray with its balance throughly in question.

“That junior agent you assigned me? He is a piece of work, Coulson,’ he stated, not looking at the older agent but mixing together some oatmeal from the container in front of them.

“Oh?’ Coulson replied, trying hard not to sound too interested, though he had been keeping tabs on the reformed assassin when he wasn’t drowning in his own paperwork or team responsibilities, “I’m assuming you’re referring to Agent Barton.”

“Yea,’ he replied, his voice tight, “Not sure if that one has what it takes. Has some authority issues.”

Coulson pursed his lips, trying not to let his irritation show. He had a pretty good poker face.

“I think most everyone entering the program has those issues, Evans.”

Agent Evan’s shrugged, “He just needs to be reminded who’s boss around here, maybe he’ll graduate from training after all,’ the former marine slapped Coulson roughly on the back as he strode off, oatmeal in hand and half drank coffee left on the counter.

The interaction left a bitter taste in his mouth, and it wasn’t just the burnt coffee this time.

_______________________________________

It was mid day, the new recruits began to file in after lunch to receive their new hand outs. Training was monotonous and besides physical training, Coulson assisted sometimes with hand outs and practical training work sheets to assess their level of competence. It was also a great way to find out if there were any learning road blocks or if their handler was instructing them efficiently enough.

When Barton walked in, he seemed different to Coulson; his eyes looked dull and while bandaids and bandages were not an uncommon sight on the man, he one under his eye looked new from the last time he saw him. He looked tired, but of course, most of the recruits did at this stage of training; the physical elements of the program were intensive he had to remind himself.

“Agent Barton,’ Coulson acknowledged, nodding to the man to sit down in front of his desk, the stakes of papers thankfully dwindling as the new recruits had picked up their assignments.

Barton sat stiffly, his fingers fiddling with the arm chair while Coulson finished writing a few last notes in the margin of the hand out.

“How’s training progressing Agent?” He asked, not looking from his paper but interested to hear what the man said.  
  
“It’s progressing sir,” Clint replied, it lacked emotion but with Agent Evans, the ex marine drill sergeant, he was sure it was an interesting experience. As much as he did not completely agree with all of the trainers methods there was no doubt that he got results, it was in the paper work and the numbers every 6 months with graduates.

He was staring straight ahead, not making eye contact. There were bandages around his fingers on his draw hand.

“Alright agent, thank you. Feel free to send me an email with any questions on the paperwork,” Coulson forced himself not to look up as the junior agent nodded shortly and briskly walked out the door like someone was on his tail.

Something was off.

Coulson went against his better judgement and pulled up the security footage from the training gym; completely in his right to do, he reasoned as he reeled back the tapes until he got to Clint’s group.

It was normal, sparring, hand to hand combat, a few technical lessons it seemed. Though there was no audio on his clearance he could see well enough it was normal training class.

Nothing was out of sorts.

Maybe it was just taking the man longer to get acclimated than he had anticipated.

________________________

It wasn’t until that evening, Phil was tired and finished his last paperwork for the evening when he made his last checks for the evening. Each trainee was fitting with a tracking device; it was a fail safe for two reasons. If an agent went rogue or was captured during a mission, there was a easier way to track their location. During training, it was a good way to keep tabs on the junior agents; especially special cases like Clint Bartons.

It was late, almost everyone was in their respective dwellings, most likely studying or nursing bruises and sore muscles. All except for Barton.

The small red dot showed him at the range; along with Agent Evans. Coulson furrowed his brow and once again looked at the time, it was 8pm. Long past training hours.

Of course the range was open 24/7, because Shield agents weren’t the most adjusted people in the world and that meant irregular sleep schedules.

Phil almost turned off the computer. Barton was training with his mission handler. It was important to develop a rapport and trust because this was someone who would be guiding him during missions when he was finished.

It was crucial to the process.

But he didn’t.

Holding his breath he found the armory feed; the screen popped to life on his computer screen in an instant.

Barton was breathless; his white shirt soaked with sweat and his chest was heaving as his back quivered with the task of pulling back the bow.

Evans was there, shaking his head. Yelling.

Suddenly he grabbed the bow from Barton’s grasp and flung the item to the ground. The weapon that Barton had so reverently stroked only weeks ago clattered to the cement ground of the range floor.

But it wasn’t until Evans grabbed the back of Barton’s head, steering his gaze from the ground to the target that Barton swung.

It caught Evans in the side of the jaw and the man immediately retaliated catching the younger agent in the stomach and pushing him up against the adjoining wall, his arm placed over Barton’s throat and holding him there.

Coulson rose from his chair quickly, the ergonomic leather seat hitting the wall behind him as he raced from his office.

Phil walked as quickly as he could without drawing attention, straightening his suit jacket as he went.

“Agent Coulson is everything-‘ Daniel’s stuttered, sitting up quickly as Phil let the door hit the wall behind it, waking Daniels from his slumped over position at the check in.

He didn’t wait to answer the agent’s question, but straightened his tie and walked into the room, letting his foot falls announce his arrival.

Clint’s wide eyes met his immediately, his fingers grasping at Evan’s forearm but the man was dangerously larger than him; though Phil had a feeling that given the opportunity Barton could break free himself.

But he wasn’t about to let it get that far.

“Gentlemen,’ he greeted, his voice tight with anger, but it sat nicely behind his professional mask, “Is there a problem?”

“No problem Coulson,’ grinned Evans, keeping Clint pined against the wall, his feet scrambling against smooth surface of the range. “Training exercise as you can tell. Bastard thought he could get in a cheap shot.”

He let Barton go, letting him nearly fall to the ground and scramble to right himself. It took everything for Coulson not to go to him, but he kept his distance and mental catalogued the trembling muscles, the bleeding finger tips and the way he was favoring his right side.

“Barton, you’re dismissed for the evening,” Coulson instead clipped, his voice controlled and even but his eyes trained on Evans as the man touched the small cut and area that would for sure be a black eye in the morning.

“Last I checked he was my asset Coulson,’ Barked Evans, who scooped down and picked up a discarded, sweat soaked shirt that Coulson immediate recognized as the one Clint was wearing earlier. “Get your shit out of my range and check out with Daniels.”

Clint nodded shakily and went to pass by his handler, avoiding Coulson and giving him a wide berth as he calmly retrieved the bow and walked out the swinging double doors leaving the two Handlers alone.

They stood there, Evans watching Clint as he darted off, his eyes narrowing as he followed the man, shaking his head in visible disappointment.

“I don’t know what you saw in that guy Couls-“ he didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence as Coulson immediately took two long strides towards the other agent, pressing his upper arm against his neck and pushing him quickly into the wall where Barton had been restrained only moment ago.

The surprise was apparent on the old military man’s face, but the fact that Coulson out ranked him had to have held him back, even just slightly.

“You listen to me,’ Phil growled, his face so close to Evan’s he could see the veins bulging between the handlers eyebrows in anger, “You get within 10 feet of Agent Barton again and I’ll have you cleaning the cafeteria with a toothbrush until your fingers bleed, do I make myself clear?”

The other man didn’t say a word for a moment, then grinned with some difficultly with the pressure on his neck, “You don’t have that authority Coulson.” He spat venomously.

Coulson smiled stiffly, “You and I both know that’s not true. Along with the evidence I have to bring to the director about your unorthodox training methods and from the look of Agent Barton’s fingers, damage of shield property. So I suggest, as I will be reassigning Agent Barton, that your keep your distance.”

He pushed the other handler harder against the wall just for a split second, reigning in that famous Coulson self control, and let Evan’s go and straightened his suit as Evan’s righted himself still red in the face.

“I have enjoyed our conversation Agent Evans,’ Coulson stated, his blank mask replaced as seamlessly as it was allowed to fall. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And with that, Coulson left the range; he wouldn’t be going home right away.

He had some paperwork to set straight.

———————————

It was early, a few recruits streaming more frequently, coffee and protein smoothies in hand to begin there day.

Coulson looked at his watch; 7:00am and on that dot Clint Barton stumbled through the doors, apologizing roughly to another recruit who he had jostled with the door and barely walking straight from sleep.

He looked worn down, sleep deprived and it looked as if he hadn’t even bothered to comb his hair. Or had time.

Coulson awoke at 5:00am every morning, had coffee and toast with grass fed butter, did a bit of cardio before hitting the showers in the nearly abandoned morning gym.

7 o’clock in the morning was late for him, but Barton was clearly not a morning person.

Which honestly didn’t surprise him.

He still had a lone bandaid adhered to his cheek and fresh bandaids wrapped loosely around his draw fingers, the finger nails of one ripped and jagged from overuse.

The sleeves of his hoodie was frayed on one side.

Clint Barton looked up confused, his gaze sweeping the entirety of the gym searching for the overzealous previous handler.

“Coulson?” He asked, clearly bewildered by the lack of his oppressor.

Phil allowed himself a tight smile, not wanted to betray the way his stomach flipped with the way the archers eyes scrutinized him.

“Agent Evans is no longer your handler, myself and Director Fury decided that it would be more effective this way,’ Coulson explained, taking out a black folder with Barton’s training program for the month that he wrote last night into the early hours, “I can assure I am more than qualified to be your handler, unless you’d prefer Agent Evans, of course.”

That seemed to snap something in Barton, who stood up straighter immediately, his chest prouder and his eyes brighter.

“No sir,’ he exclaimed, as if he was having trouble believing it, “I completely agree with the transfer.”

The older agent smiled, “Then lets get to work.”

 


End file.
